


Blood Letters

by Puimoo



Category: World Trigger
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 06:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puimoo/pseuds/Puimoo
Summary: After a seemingly one-off attack on Arashiyama results in the Face of Border being cooped up at home for a couple of weeks, Tachikawa finds himself becoming deeply involved in both the case and Arashiyama's suprising complex personal life.





	Blood Letters

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my absolute favourite pairings, and yet I am so rarely able to write anything about them. As a result, it's been really exciting to sink my teeth into this fic and these characters.

The apartment block sits in a row of identical buildings, buried deep off a side street and at least a 10-minute walk from the nearest station. Kei cares little for the walk, not at this time of night and with rain threatening in the air - he can taste the change in moisture on each of his breaths in, see a puff of almost-ice on each exhale. Most days, Kei would easily evade the rules that govern when and where they can activate their triggers, bending the rules is one of the perks of being one of the most powerful members within the organisation. But things are a little ... uneasy ... within the organisation right now, and all their activations are being monitored and logged with a religious intensity that would make a priest blush.

And so, despite all his protestations Kei walks (and how droll that sounds) through the mostly empty street, aiming for a particular apartment block amongst the apartment blocks and takes the stairs up to the seventh floor when the elevator seems persistently stuck between the 12th and 8th levels. He remembers visiting the mother of a trainee once after 'an unfortunate attack which claimed the young man's life'. The official report states something different, more truthful but less fantastical: the young boy had died in a training exercise that went wrong, because of course that is going to fucking happen when you give kids weapons and an egotistic shove so that they believe that they can take on both a world of Neighbours and a legion of other agents desperately trying to unseat you. The mother’s apartment block had been just like this one.

Serviceable.

Safe.

Inconspicuous. 

It is not, Kei thinks dryly as he steps out of the open stairwell and onto the shared corridor of the 10 flats of floor 7, the kind of place one assumes one of the most popular of Border's elite would choose to live. Kei is young and talented and earns an immense amount of money to compensate for the fact that all these things mean he is unlikely to live past 25. The penthouse he rents has a view over the nicer parts of Ginza, those that still light up at night and rarely suffer from the rolling blackouts that strike most of Tokyo. It is a model of practical luxury, with a gym and small practice studio fitted in to meet his needs. Oh, there is a kitchen as well and a lounge as well, but neither are as important as the space it gives him to breathe after a day spent knee deep in Border politics and the ever ongoing threat of an invasion.

Jin lives onsite in a shoebox room and half of Kei's own team still live wrapped in the comforts of their family homes, and somehow that makes sense for each of them. Yet the thought of Mr Celebrity Jun Arashiyama living in apartment 5, floor 7 (with a pair of sneakers and a welcoming mat optimistically drying outside his door) seems incompatible with the image Kei has conjured up of him. A monastery might work, or some luxury suite in a hotel that is paid for by a gaggle of sponsors. And if it is not the celebrity version of Arashiyama on display, then Family Man Arashiyama Jun surely should still be living at home, cooking dinner for his family and helping his neighbours carry their shopping.

Instead, Arashiyama lives in an apartment building in a row of apartment buildings, on a floor that not even the elevator stops at.

Kei balances the box of paperwork on his hip, ringing the doorbell with his free hand. It shouldn't surprise him when he hears a dinky doorbell tune play out inside.

There is a delay before Arashiyama opens the door, and he is clearly not at his best. No, that is unfair to Arashiyama, Kei thinks, because Arashiyama is always Arashiyama and Kei has seen him more battered and bruised than he is now. Some of the more one eyed of their agents may look at Arashiyama and see only a constant, shimmer of gold. But Kei has seen Arashiyama bright eyed and bushy tailed, he's seen him with his hair streaked with mud and blood that may or may not be his own smeared across his cheek and down his uniform. He's seen those eyes filled with hope and with grief. 

To decide which of those Arashiyama’s is him at his best is to do a disservice to each of the other versions in turn.

So instead, Kei recants. It is not that Arashiyama does not look at his best.

He looks like shit.

If Arashiyama is generally impeccable even when sneaking a nap in the middle of one of their shared university classes (and to be frank, there is little that keeps Kei himself awake through their history lectures either), this evening he is a study in mess. His black hair has been finger brushed, and tired bruises blot the skin beneath his eyes in a smudge of blue and purple. Even as his mouth draws up into a tired smile (and tired is the word of the day, girls and boys, with a capital T and drawn out vowels), there is a pained tug in the way Arashiyama does so, a tightness that suggests much more. Gone is even the uniform that Arashiyama normally lives in (probably sleeps in, would definitely fuck in if Arashiyama wasn't likely a pious virgin who believes in immaculate conception and thinks sex happens through pollination). The black slacks and thick black jumper do little to dispel the paleness of his cheeks, and really. You would think that Arashiyama didn't think that Kei was worth putting in the effort for _at all_.

"This cold of yours has really taken it out of you, huh?" Kei says wryly with a low whistle.

Arashiyama just smiles, a knowing glint in his tired eyes as he gestures Kei in. Arashiyama is a terrible liar at the best of times; he doesn't try and extend the story that has been spun at headquarters about Arashiyama’s absence from work. Poor Arashiyama-san, having caught a terrible case of the flu after kissing too many babies/working too many late nights. Favoured Arashiyama-san, taking a couple of weeks off from work when he probably has nothing worse than a cough, and haven't they all had to work through THAT a thousand times before?

Kei wonders if they would be less or more sympathetic if they saw Arashiyama now. It’s not a bet Kei is willing to make.

So. This is why Shinoda had called in a favour and assigned Kei to drop off boxes of paperwork for his protégée. Sneaky bastard. Arashiyama's own squad has been stationed up north, completing some support mission for one of the younger teams who are still cutting their teeth on how deeply political their role can be.

Kei slips out of his shoes and into the house slippers provided, shooting a dry look over at Arashiyama when he notes the animal ears and faces etched into them. For this Arashiyama is clearly unapologetic, shrugging off Kei's look with a grin.

"I'll make some tea if you can put the boxes down with the other paperwork," Arashiyama offers, and of course he does because that is what is right and proper to do when you have a house guest, no matter how temporary. Kei follows him through past the small kitchenette that is almost a kitchen if you are feeling generous or perhaps happen to be an optimistic real estate agent trying to dress up mutton as lamb. Arashiyama leaves him in a lounge that is bigger than Kei was expecting, housing an inviting kotatsu that Kei aches to stretch his cold legs beneath and an obnoxiously large TV that doesn't fit in with how he pictures Arashiyama at all.

One day, in a far flung future where all their battles have been won and life somehow feels safe again, Kei thinks he will be able to simply enter a room and sit down. But it's one of those pesky things about training to be a Border agent since you’re 14, Kei has been built to analyse everything with a clinical edge. Hell. Kei can enter a 7/11 and know just how long it has been since his favourite brand of chips have been restocked and damn if that isn't a skill he has called on a thousand times. But it also means that the two minutes he stands alone in Arashiyama's lounge are long enough to catalogue and assembled into boxes all his thoughts about the space around him. In particular, ten points stick out for him, and he flags them with a mental sticky note: 

1\. The apartment feels disused, forgotten. There are photos on the walls and perched on top of the shoe cupboard, but that merely makes Kei think of it all as a niche museum dedicated to capturing Arashiyama's friends and families in their mostly embarrassing moments. All the little lived in signs that Kei expects are missing.

2\. The door is reinforced steel, with five bolts and an upgraded peep hole.

3\. Instead of sitting in the centre of the room, the kotatsu is pulled into a far corner, pillows propped up against the wall for extra padding.

4\. There are half burned candles sitting on the bookcase, perched on top of the television, crowded together in a corner on the kotatsu. Kei's apartment has a generator running down in the basement to counteract the blackouts, and it feels odd that Arashiyama hasn't chosen somewhere that does the same.

5\. Either Arashiyama hasn't paid his heating bill, or he's had his balcony door open for an extended period of time this evening. Which, yeah. Is kind of a stupid thing to be doing at this time of the year, deep into winter and with a storm on the horizon.

6\. There is paperwork artfully arranged everywhere, and Kei certainly isn’t expecting that. He's somehow always thought that being the Face of Border means that you don't also have to be the brains, or the hands, or the report writer of Border as well. Kei himself passes most of their paperwork over to whoever on the team is going to be pissed off with the assignment the most. 

He is such a good team captain.

Kei ignores the medical box that pokes out from beneath the kotatsu (7) because it is unlikely that Arashiyama means him to see it (8). The TV makes more sense when he takes in to account the clearly unused video games and Xbox tucked into the cabinet below it (9), although that -

"When you’re done interrogating my living room, you can carry the tray over," Arashiyama calls out from the kitchenette, and though the tiredness hasn't lifted there is a genuine light now in his eyes. Arashiyama is as easy with his amusement as he is his professionalism, and he rests against the counter as Kei saunters over, picking up the arranged tea set with a deliberate bow. That smile dissolves into a grin, then a grimace, and then into something that is meant to be a grin again but is filtered through Arashiyama's 'I cannot tell a convincing lie' app and so ends up as a smi- _grim_ ace instead.

There is a reason why Arashiyama isn't carrying the tray himself, and it's not because he is a poor host.

The tea is warm and the kotatsu is warmer, and finally Kei is able to slip his legs beneath that heated bliss and feel a hint of comfort seep through into his own tired and frigging cold bones. On nights like these Kei doesn't feel like a sexy, athletic, talented, and upmost humble 20 year old. No. He feels like a rusty car in a junk yard just begging out for suicide by scrapheap. Whereas Kei had scrambled down to the kotatsu with the elegance of a three-legged cat scaling some trellis, Arashiyama lowers himself more gingerly, relief relaxing his brow momentarily when he manages to attain the unthinkable and sit down without any general mayhem or mishap.

"So, my guess at this point is either broken ribs, one hell of a concussion, or you were mob rushed by a crowd of your adoring fans who stampeded right over the top of you, stealing all of your hairbrushes as they left." Kei is spreading his bets equally across all three options at this point, he has seen how rabid Arashiyama's fans can get in support of their champion, but he also knows how quickly they turn. 

Arashiyama's eyes widen, before he lets loose a light laugh that pulls something painfully in his ribs (a-ha!). He tries - self-consciously - to lift his hand to his head in a surely feeble and losing attempt to wrangle his hair into something Arashiyama Jun appropriate, but whatever it is that is pinging at his ribs keeps his arm from reaching above shoulder height.

And really, this is all Arashiyama to a T. Good humour, attempts to do the right thing and be the right person. But there is something astray in his eyes and a tightness to the way he holds himself that is suspiciously worrying. Kei likes Arashiyama enough - he is one of those people that you feel strongly about either way, and while their politics are often in conflict and Kei sees 'nice and good' as often a synonym for 'doesn't really ever get the job done, unless you are a primary school teacher working with a classroom full of puppies', there have been too many shared battles and dead friends between them for Kei to not get that Arashiyama's approach is not merely quintessentially him, it's probably how he manages to keep getting up each morning. 

Kei prefers a stiff drink before going to bed, a packet of chips to greet him in the morning, and at least one bruising training session per day where he gets to inflict significant damage on someone else.

More importantly, however, Arashiyama supports the Swallows. Team loyalty supersedes all.

Still, it never does a man good to get too involved with the ins and outs of another squad, their great taste in baseball teams be damned. You never know where that particular rabbit's hole will take you, especially on a slippery slope like Arashiyama where you might just end up having to be that little better, kinder, and professional than you really ever want to be.

Kei prefers to skirt around the edges of all of those things, with an occasional toe tip at Christmas.

"Does the rest of your team know?"

Kei also likes to skirt around the edges of volcanoes, so this feels right at home.

Guilt flashes across Arashiyama's face, catching in his eyes and on the hook of his downturned mouth. He takes a sip of his own tea, placing it down on the table with a grimace.

"Not exactly."

Kei nods. It makes sense, Arashiyama's team are professional and capable, full of an enthusiasm that teeters on obnoxiousness. But they also run young, and every move they make is watched closely by the other teams, the press, and Border's enemies. A generic injury they could probably manage well enough, but anything else...

This isn't a training exercise gone wrong, although it is starting to get the subtle edges of a 'training mission gone wrong'.

"You don't want to know," Arashiyama says with a smile, reading Kei's thoughts with deceptive ease.

Kei smirks at that, leans back and stretches his legs out further beneath the kotatsu.

"Then tell me all."

Arashiyama studies him then, fingers tight around his teacup and head dipped to the side. Arashiyama is not a fool, he is just as aware as Kei is of how careful you have to be with information. At the same time, while they aren't exactly friends they are peers, and there are few people that understand the weight of Border as much as their number 1 captain and their number 1 hottest Border Bachelor (as voted by Cosmo readers, although Kei is pretty sure that list was rigged. Jin even appeared in the top five, and no.) 

And Kei is being unfair, because Arashiyama is tired and clearly in pain, and hell, probably on a cocktail of all the best drugs. He's also been locked up in this dusty husk of an apartment for at least a couple of days, and chances are he would have chatted to the postman if they had made the trek up.

Still, Kei isn't prepared for what Arashiyama says next. He expects a story about a sabotaged training mission, or an overzealous fan outing. He's not expecting some random stranger attempting to run him over while Arashiyama is picking up some groceries at 2 in the morning following an interview that runs late. The man is in custody, and so far there is nothing to suggest it is anything more than a moment of madness from someone who has worn this war on his shoulders to the point where it weighs too heavily for stability to always rule supreme.

"Some of the latest Border attacks have created a sense of unrest," Arashiyama explains with a tentative, restricted shrug. He seems more at ease with this than Kei thinks any sane man should be, but then this is Arashiyama's bread and butter. Arashiyama and his team aren't merely the face of Border, they are the lightening rod. Kei's own team get frustrated and bitchy over the attention the Arashiyama Squad gets from the media, the screeds of fans who shower them with praise at the expense of all the others. What they often don't get is that the squad also attracts all the negative attention and crazies out there, freeing up the rest of them to continue on with their duties without having to worry about being a target. 

"But." Capital B, punctuated with a full stop. It is not a question. Arashiyama nods at the boxes of paperwork, to the additional pile that Kei had brought in on Shinoda’s behalf.

"I'm going to spend the next couple of weeks going through some of the backlog of fan mail to see if anything sticks out. Just in case." Arashiyama says it matter-of-factly, as though hundreds of letters of adoration are an everyday occurrence. Hell, they probably are for Arashiyama, although Kei has to think that at some point it must become white noise. He's not entirely sure what he's expecting to find here, but that Arashiyama (and Shinoda by extension) think there might be something worthwhile makes Kei wonder about the nature of the letters Arashiyama receives. "Normally I split the duties with Haruka, but after the recent breach in our security system the whole administration team has been stretched thin."

Kei cocks an eyebrow, surprised.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" He feels old right now, _Arashiyama_ looks old right now. There is never any time left in their lives to even recover from whatever is going on with Arashiyama's ribs, and Kei is willing to bet now that the bruises and scrapes stretch further than he suspects.

"Rest isn't exactly something that comes easily right now."

Kei pushes down a frown. Something rings hollow in Arashiyama's words, echoing deeper than mere tiredness and down into exhaustion.

"Well, I'll make sure to drop by with your latest box of goodies each night." Kei says, draining the last of his tea and reluctantly pushing himself up and away from the warmth of the kotatsu.

"Huh?" 

And, _oh,_ doesn’t Arashiyama wear surprise well? It smooths out the pained crease in his forehead for just a moment, and those emerald eyes widen to their largest, fullest glory. Contrary to what some people like to spin, Arashiyama rarely looks innocent or naïve. It is just that it is easier to reduce Arashiyama to those emotions than to admit that constant professionalism can also be infused with an edge of empathy and kindness as well.

But this? This is a new look for Arashiyama. Kei finds himself really quite appreciating it.

It’s not a surprise that no one has had the time to give Arashiyama the heads up that Kei hasn't merely been sent over as his talented and extremely good-looking postman for the night. He has been assigned this role for the next week, a fitting punishment for someone who is generally better suited for fronting a battlefield than a box of paper. 

"Community service," Kei says simply. Arashiyama just nods. Kei's boss often straddles the line between what works best for Border and what works best for the personal advancement of his politics, and there are times when Kei quite willingly steps into the crossfire. Normally, Kido’s power and the team's top standing means that they get away with more than most teams.

Occasionally, however, there are consequences. Carrying around Arashiyama's fan mail is a unique one, but at least Jin isn't involved. That Shinoda has somehow managed to twist this away from a simple punishment and towards a more personal request is both tricky and brilliant.

Arashiyama walks him to the door, leaning there against the doorframe as Kei slips out of those bunny slippers and back into his oilskin boots.

"Get some sleep." Kei commands in a friendly manner from the door as he turns to leave, then pauses, a lazy smile in place. He reaches out towards Arashiyama, carding his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to calm some of the tangles. Arashiyama blinks up at him, and-

Ha. 

Now _this_ is unexpected.

Funny isn't it, how somehow it is when Arashiyama looks at him like this, tired and surprised and somehow suddenly all so vulnerable and alone, that-

It lasts all of a fleeting second, and then Arashiyama is back to being his utmost professional self.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening," Arashiyama says, the perfect host once again.

The last person Kei expects to be an enigma was Arashiyama Fucking Jun. 

Kei walks down seven flights, out onto a street flocked with apartment block after apartment block. The rain settles in before Kei makes it back to the train station, but it is only then as he is thanking the heavens for his waterproof jacket and boots that he catches himself.

Arashiyama had deftly avoided replying to his comment about getting some sleep.


End file.
